Last night our friends Sam, Michelle, and Christian left us to go back to the United States. We had a lot of fun here with them, and we hope they can survive the torpor that returning to life in such a blessedly boring country must be. The going-away party was cut short by the curfew, and actually we left a little after the 10pm toque de queda had started. I remember us being not-so-mildly inebriated and jogging through the dark the "block" or so to our hotel slanging around what we thought at the time was convincing military operational lingo. We were not to intoxicated to not feel the compunction that the SHH trio was not there to provide covering fire (and in the case of Rodrigo, that Michelle would not be taking up positions at his flank these nights). Safe trip, guys.
Today we spent ten hours at the school getting dirty. Our friend Moises came to help us weld iron bars on the doors (will sunglasses will really keep him from burning out a retina?) and bolt down cages to house the computers. We put our two machines on his ghetto-looking customized tables and ran the alarm system wiring through plastic tubing we had to drill into the cinder block walls. When it comes to collapsing to sleep on sacks of UN food aid, corn is definitely the best. (Red beans are too hard, rice too soft). After all the labor was done, the alarm system keypad stopped responding, and neither Rodrigo nor Tian could reprogram it. It was about to get dark, we were alone in the school, and we were all exhausted. There was really only one thing that could make things better.
We got stoned.
What do you expect from five college students in one of the world's most active international drug pipelines? We panicked when the first rock banged off the tin roof, and ran to lock the doors and gather our equipment when the second came through the window. Fortunately it was only some school-age punks emulating their probably riotous parents (we found out only as we tentatively stepped out of the gate) and not a gang coming to steal the Alvaro Contreras computer lab the day it was installed.
So it was a bit of a rocky start. But I am prepared to believe that it is all part of some beautiful divine plan to have the ribbon-cutting on July 4th. God bless America. Though down here, sometimes, one is sorely tempted to conclude He had precious little left over. Remember Honduras in your prayers this weekend, too.
P.S.: I will link an article from today's NYT that is the best journalism I have seen thus far about the ongoing crisis. Unfortunately I can't find the worst, a story in the today's La Prensa (the national daily) titled "The People Love Their Armed Forces".
Jul 3, 2009
Jul 2, 2009
The System Is Armed
To make our martial law-imposed curfew movie night more comfortable, we barricade the mattresses into a makeshift couch. The room is a mess. Everywhere you look are opened-up computers, and the alarm system is strewn out all over in a mess of different-colored wires. To complete the bombmaker-chic look, our machetes and Sandinista paraphernalia are also lying around on the floor.
Enter fifteen policemen with helmets, body armor, and semiautomatic rifles. They're walking by our window looking for the prominent Zelaya supporters staying in the hotel. But we don't know this, and dash frantically to stash away our cache of suspicious-looking equipment. Aware that most guests here are Americans leaving Honduras, we are a little worried for the first half of Walk the Line. A good choice. The runner-up, Enemy at the Gates, might have seemed like an ominous choice.
(Hopefully you're laughing at us. We were perfectly safe the entire time.) The point is that when the excitement happens here, it's a little more crazy and confusing then the international press presents it. But of course the New York Times only has so many inches to devote to a country like Honduras. It's not a straightforward right-wing military coup resisted by a marginalized left-leaning underclass. The laws matter less than the guns behind them, and both sides hold them in contempt. So right now it's a panicked situation where frightened people are making decisions under tremendous pressure.
That's the idea if any would-be thief breaks into the administrative building of Alvaro Contreras school to steal the computers there. We spent today playing with power tools, drilling holes in the cinder block to install the control box, keypad, siren, and motion sensors for the alarm system we purchased. Tomorrow, on go the grisly-looking metal doors that look like something out of a horror movie. Then we will finally be able to move the computers and our hotel room will return to looking like a primitive armed encampment, rather than a highly sophisticated terrorist hideout. It's good to be physically putting things in place. At the end of the day we were dirty, hungry, and exhausted. I took a brief siesta on piled sacks of donated World Food Programme corn.
We think it might be poetic if we go operational on the fourth of July.
This will be an awfully fun report to write. We have been here for earthquakes, rising gang violence, a veritable mass murder next door, and now a coup d'etat. And that was only the first month.
Enter fifteen policemen with helmets, body armor, and semiautomatic rifles. They're walking by our window looking for the prominent Zelaya supporters staying in the hotel. But we don't know this, and dash frantically to stash away our cache of suspicious-looking equipment. Aware that most guests here are Americans leaving Honduras, we are a little worried for the first half of Walk the Line. A good choice. The runner-up, Enemy at the Gates, might have seemed like an ominous choice.
(Hopefully you're laughing at us. We were perfectly safe the entire time.) The point is that when the excitement happens here, it's a little more crazy and confusing then the international press presents it. But of course the New York Times only has so many inches to devote to a country like Honduras. It's not a straightforward right-wing military coup resisted by a marginalized left-leaning underclass. The laws matter less than the guns behind them, and both sides hold them in contempt. So right now it's a panicked situation where frightened people are making decisions under tremendous pressure.
That's the idea if any would-be thief breaks into the administrative building of Alvaro Contreras school to steal the computers there. We spent today playing with power tools, drilling holes in the cinder block to install the control box, keypad, siren, and motion sensors for the alarm system we purchased. Tomorrow, on go the grisly-looking metal doors that look like something out of a horror movie. Then we will finally be able to move the computers and our hotel room will return to looking like a primitive armed encampment, rather than a highly sophisticated terrorist hideout. It's good to be physically putting things in place. At the end of the day we were dirty, hungry, and exhausted. I took a brief siesta on piled sacks of donated World Food Programme corn.We think it might be poetic if we go operational on the fourth of July.
This will be an awfully fun report to write. We have been here for earthquakes, rising gang violence, a veritable mass murder next door, and now a coup d'etat. And that was only the first month.
Jun 30, 2009
How to Survive a Coup d'Etat
1. Be unpredictable. Travel back into the country and through the capital city on the very day the coup takes place.
2. Don't panic. Especially if you are wondering why nobody is in the largest bus terminal the night the president is forced into exile.
3. Head for the hills. Or in this case, don't let the State Department dissuade your travel plans to to tropical islands.
4. Relax. May I recommend snorkeling in the world's second-largest barrier reef system? You will see some truly otherworldly beauty.
5. Have a stiff drink. This is crucial. Don't let martial law and a nationwide curfew stop you from finding a dive and boozing.
6. Never back down. So the police are carting curfew-violators off to jail? If you were promised free seconds, don't pay the full meal.
7. Pray. Four hours of this will do the trick if riots are blocking the only bridge out of town. Your bus will get through on its third try.
The events of the "coup" are all over the news, although we are surprised that word is being used so much. Until Sunday, President Zelaya's actions were widely interpreted as a bid to give him unconstitutional power. The referendum to extend his term limits were declared unconstitutional by the court, and his decision to fire the chief of the military looked like a desperate political move to counter his unpopularity by seizing control of the army. So is it the old Latin American military coup or the other two branches of government intervening to save the constitution from a Chavez-style semi-takeover? Depends on who is really in charge now, which is very confusing for everyone here. Interestingly, the newly-declared president is from El Progreso.
Three guerrilla fighters in Utila outfitted in matching faux Ray-Bans.
We have traveled the length of the country, from the Nicaraguan border to Utila in the Carribean Sea, as the coup has unfolded. Except for more police checkpoints, worried conversations, and a small demonstration in the port of La Ceiba (that blocked a bridge and delayed our return here to Progreso by four hours) the country we have seen is tranquil and confused. There is a 9pm nationwide curfew, though the only difference is this seems to be decreed by martial law instead of the gangs.
We're safe despite earthquakes, gangs, and the putsch. More worrying to us is the probability of a teacher strike that would delay our project indefinitely. And threats resulting from gang disputes in Las Brisas that have made our partner organization temporarily pull out of our work-site.
Better than safe, actually. Utila is a mecca for divers and backpackers, which makes it a tropical paradise that is both cheap and predominantly English-speaking. Though the average Utilitarian has no sense of justice (see #6), most are the very interesting and off-beat people. We would really like to go back and get our diving certifications; the reef and its fish are strange and beautiful and vividly colorful. And you can go either for L25 ($1.25) or if you buy a beer. Ironically the most relaxed I have ever been in Honduras has been in the middle of this military coup of sorts. So I thought I'd share some tips.
Next: some tips for surviving third-world regional conflicts when the Venezuelans send the Nicaraguans over the border.
2. Don't panic. Especially if you are wondering why nobody is in the largest bus terminal the night the president is forced into exile.
3. Head for the hills. Or in this case, don't let the State Department dissuade your travel plans to to tropical islands.
4. Relax. May I recommend snorkeling in the world's second-largest barrier reef system? You will see some truly otherworldly beauty.
5. Have a stiff drink. This is crucial. Don't let martial law and a nationwide curfew stop you from finding a dive and boozing.
6. Never back down. So the police are carting curfew-violators off to jail? If you were promised free seconds, don't pay the full meal.
7. Pray. Four hours of this will do the trick if riots are blocking the only bridge out of town. Your bus will get through on its third try.
The events of the "coup" are all over the news, although we are surprised that word is being used so much. Until Sunday, President Zelaya's actions were widely interpreted as a bid to give him unconstitutional power. The referendum to extend his term limits were declared unconstitutional by the court, and his decision to fire the chief of the military looked like a desperate political move to counter his unpopularity by seizing control of the army. So is it the old Latin American military coup or the other two branches of government intervening to save the constitution from a Chavez-style semi-takeover? Depends on who is really in charge now, which is very confusing for everyone here. Interestingly, the newly-declared president is from El Progreso.
Three guerrilla fighters in Utila outfitted in matching faux Ray-Bans.
We have traveled the length of the country, from the Nicaraguan border to Utila in the Carribean Sea, as the coup has unfolded. Except for more police checkpoints, worried conversations, and a small demonstration in the port of La Ceiba (that blocked a bridge and delayed our return here to Progreso by four hours) the country we have seen is tranquil and confused. There is a 9pm nationwide curfew, though the only difference is this seems to be decreed by martial law instead of the gangs.
We're safe despite earthquakes, gangs, and the putsch. More worrying to us is the probability of a teacher strike that would delay our project indefinitely. And threats resulting from gang disputes in Las Brisas that have made our partner organization temporarily pull out of our work-site.
Better than safe, actually. Utila is a mecca for divers and backpackers, which makes it a tropical paradise that is both cheap and predominantly English-speaking. Though the average Utilitarian has no sense of justice (see #6), most are the very interesting and off-beat people. We would really like to go back and get our diving certifications; the reef and its fish are strange and beautiful and vividly colorful. And you can go either for L25 ($1.25) or if you buy a beer. Ironically the most relaxed I have ever been in Honduras has been in the middle of this military coup of sorts. So I thought I'd share some tips.
Next: some tips for surviving third-world regional conflicts when the Venezuelans send the Nicaraguans over the border.
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